


Those Are Her Boys

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [55]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Badass Dean Winchester, Dark Dean Winchester, Español | Spanish, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Harassment, M/M, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Sam, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2660195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leticia begins to look for a new job when her current one begins to fall apart. Mrs. Martinez gives her a lead to a taqueria down the street. On a night when Leticia is the only waitress on staff, she unexpectedly meets two of the regulars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Are Her Boys

Arturo left the restaurant in June after they failed the health inspection. Roaches, mice, and the cooks who stopped giving two fucks—were only the tip of the iceberg. Plate by plate, the regulars began to notice the difference. Hipsters did not realize much more than the tortilla in front of them, but it wasn’t their orders at two in the morning that had kept the restaurant afloat for thirty years. Regulars like Señor Fernando and Señora Carmen knew the original owner, Arturo’s grandfather and community legend, Don Sergio.

When Señora Carmen sent back a plate of camarones, Leticia started looking for other work.

Being undocumented and looking for work in Chicago takes time, but it is not impossible. The lady next door had some leads in the beginning of April, when work started to open up at the greeting card factory. Hours were good—six to two—but Leticia turned out to be allergic to the glitter they used. Who has allergies to glitter? It would have been a good job; it would have gotten her out of waitressing and dealing with macho fry cooks grabbing her ass with their greasy, stubby chorizo fingers. Her other options came from the lady at the lavanderia across the street, who suggested babysitting for rich white folks up on the North Side. The downside to it was that she would have to live with them, and there was talk that unless she found decent people, the situation turned dangerous.

Babysitting was the last resort. Her last contact was from her days waitressing at a pizza place, where she worked with Mrs. Martinez’s youngest daughter, Isla. Mid-May, Leticia bumped into Mrs. Martinez at the grocery store, where she was buying six pounds of carne asada and three packets of corn tortillas.

“Is there an asada this weekend?” she had asked, helping the older woman pick enough avocados to feed an army. Block parties and asadas and fiestas on Mrs. Martinez’s block required no invitation.

Tying the plastic bag with avocados closed, Mrs. Martinez laughed. “No mija, not this weekend. I have three hombres to feed.”

“Three?” Everyone knew that Mr. Valz had decided to officially court Mrs. Martinez. But did she have two other suitors? “Y van a comer todo eso?”

“Pues, y mas. Uno es muy, muy alto.”

“Tan en casa sus hijos?” Maybe her sons were visiting.

“Bah, esos…” She huffed and selected two pounds of onions like they had personally wronged her. “No, mija, los vecinos, my boys. You come by, I will introduce you to them. Ah, que no se me olvide… esa mujer de la lavanderia me dijo algo.” As well-known as Mr. Valz’s affections were for Mrs. Martinez, so was the rivalry between Mrs. Martinez and Mrs. Vergara. There was something about a long lost love in Mexico, many years ago, that neither side ever forgave the other for. Leticia understood; her mother had been that way. Ghosts from Mexico—an entire other life—managed to find their way across the border and into their lives in the strangest of ways. For Mrs. Martinez, her ghosts happened to be the heavy-set, perpetually sweating Mrs. Vergara.

“She say to me you need work.”

“Si, Señora, I do.”

“Arturo is a fool.”

“Well…”

“Mmm, si lo sé.” That is that. “No es perfecto, pero Miguel necesita otra mesera.”

“Really?” They dodged other carts, small children, and hipsters on their way towards the checkout line. Leticia was not thrilled to hear that the lead was another waitressing job, but it was better than babysitting and closer. Plus, she could earn tips, which had never been her issue. The problem was that Miguel had a tendency of hiring older women because in his experience, they were the most reliable. He also never hired a mesera he didn’t personally know from church. Leticia’s family had always gone to Roger’s Park for church, to a cathedral off of Devon. Miguel went to the church on 18th.

The least Leticia could do for the tip was to help Mrs. Martinez load her groceries from the cart onto the conveyor belt. Mrs. Martinez smiled and shook her head. “You look so much like your mother sometimes, mija.” Ghosts, again.

“Gracias, Señora.”

“Miguel is a simple man. Mi altito fixed his car last winter—casi gratis. I will talk to him. But only if you want the job.”

Connections in the hood—as Leticia’s nephews call it—are varied and intricate. Six degrees of separation? In Pilsen, it’s more like two. Everyone knows someone who knows someone. There is always a favor to be asked and a favor to be returned.

It was babysitting and potentially being deported if she was accused of any wrongdoing, or waiting tables at yet another taqueria.

“Te lo agradezco mucho,” she said, hugging Mrs. Martinez.

The hug was returned. Within twelve hours, Leticia had a new job.

 

Taquerias are more common than Starbucks in Pilsen. The neighborhood association works to keep it that way. Every taqueria has a distinctive flavor to it, even though their menus could be copies of each other. And, just like sports teams, each restaurant has its own diehard supporters. Leticia thought she was hallucinating the first time she saw Señora Carmen sit down for dinner at Miguel’s restaurant. But there she was, in Leticia’s section, and she ordered a plate of camerones.

Adjusting at a new restaurant takes time and common sense. Do not act too smart. Do not set the bar too high at first. Do not learn too fast, but also, do not learn too slow. Always give the mesera training you a little extra of your tips to avoid talk. Never start gossip, and when invited to talk it, only talk it about customers or the cooks, never fellow meseras. Leticia learned her fair share of waitressing from Isla and a few other women at the pizza place and Don Sergio’s. The ladies at Miguel’s are not warm to her until she has worked there three weeks. Her first act of being accepted into the circle is being passed a breakfast burrito the cooks make for Teresa, the most senior mesera. She is a woman in her sixties, someone Leticia has known in passing. At her request every morning, burritos are made. Teresa also orders supplies, keeps track of tips, runs the main register, and assigns cleaning duties. She is the first one who tells Leticia, “Buen trabajo, flaca.”

Luckily, Leticia is settled in at Miguel’s by the time the health inspector pays Arturo a visit. Business over there drops. Other taquerias—including Miguel’s—soak up the business. She is in some way sorry for her ex-coworkers, but it is difficult to feel that way for long when she hears some of the horror stories from new customers like Señora Carmen. To hear that someone was handling money and then serving plates or dressing salads without washing their hands disgusts Leticia. Miguel’s might not have the same history that Don Sergio’s has, but it is clean and the cooks rotate the freezers and coolers without being told more than once.

Summertime passes by in a rush.

She takes care of her nephews—four of them, aged three to thirteen—whenever she is off and volunteers at the arts center every other Sunday afternoon. Miguel offers her more hours after a month of working for him, and Mrs. Martinez visits to congratulate her on the job. Leticia buys her the biggest carne asada plate and sends her home with three more take-out orders on the house. When one of the girls from Don Sergio’s asks Leticia for a lead, she sends her to Mrs. Martinez, and mentions that the greeting card factory will be opening again for the holidays in a month or two.

In September, as she washes the inside windows in the restaurant, Leticia decides she wants to take a class. Any class would be fine. It looks easy enough to sign up at one of the city colleges, and she knows they don’t ask for papers. As long as the class is paid for they don’t care. Since it is only herself, she has the money up front, and pays for one beginner’s French course. Her sister laughs at her—where the fuck in Pilsen are you going to speak French? In secret, her oldest nephew asks her to share some of her knowledge. By the second class, Leticia can introduce herself and ask where the nearest bathroom is.

Late at night, after she comes home from carrying platters of food and refilling salsa bottles, she flips through her course book to find interesting words. Curled up in the living room with a mug of tea, she repeats to herself, “Le plat. Plate. Plato.”

With the help of her nephew, she passes her midterm and can successfully ask people their names, about their families, and their clothes. Her brother-in-law quizzes her and pretends like he knows the correct answers instinctively, because French and Spanish are romance languages so it should be easy. What he actually does is peek at the answers on the index cards Leticia has made.

On a cold October evening, Leticia gets into work after class, her head a mixture of French, English, and Spanish. She hears her mother’s voice in Spanish at first, but it transforms into French. She takes it as a good sign. What is not a good sign is the green look on Yuli’s face.

“I need to go home,” Yuli blurts out, clutching her purse to her chest. “Me voy a…”

“No you won’t,” Teresa declares. She herds Yuli towards the door. “Leti, vuelvo luego. Look after things. Don’t let Carlos get carried away with the plates.”

Their newest cook, Carlos, is a younger man from Puerto Vallarta who trained at a resort for a few years. Sometimes he adds radishes in the shapes of roses on the plates. Leticia thinks they’re lovely. Most customers don’t eat them.

For the twenty minutes Leticia and Carlos are alone, five tables sit down to eat and two leave. Jose arrives early, which helps, since two more tables have come in. One is a larger group of men who sit in the corner and ask for a round of cold cerveza. Easy enough. As Leticia sets down a bottle for each man, she notices that they are all mechanics, and they are all Latino except for one, who also happens to be the tallest in their party.

Beyond that preliminary observation, Leticia doesn’t have time for more. Table three wants to know if tortillas are vegan and gluten free. Table four would like another horchata. Table six is getting impatient for their food, but they just ordered five minutes ago. They seem to be confused. This is not Taco Bell. Table three wants to know if there is a soy-chorizo substitute or vegan cheese available. The five women who walk in and sit at table nine would all like shrimp cocktails and piña coladas. Leticia begins breathing a little faster, running from table to table, pleading with the boys to hurry up with her orders. She snaps at Carlos when she sees him cutting a radish into a rose.

“Not now!” She picks up a blender and becomes a bartender. “No hay tiempo!”

She doesn’t mean to lose her patience with him, but it only becomes worse when table three says something doesn’t taste right in their vegetarian/vegan/gluten free tacos.

“What?” Leticia looks at their plates, which are all half-empty. “What doesn’t taste right?”

A girl with glasses far too large for her eyes blearily looks up at Leticia. “There’s gluten in here.”

“You have corn tortillas, rice, guacamole, vegetables, and salsa—nothing else. There is no gluten.”

“I can taste it,” the girl insists and pushes her plate away from herself.

Against her better knowledge, Leticia asks, “Are you allergic?”

“No, but I’m very sensitive. I can taste gluten.”

“Oh.” Leticia grabs the plate. “So you are gluten intolerant.”

“ _No_. I am sensitive to it.”

“These are the only things on the menu that are everything you have asked for.” She doesn’t have time for this. Table six’s food is up. The group of men would like to order now. Three people have walked in with no one to see them to a table. Teresa still isn’t back. The tray of chips and salsa for the group of men begins to put a strain on her wrists. One of the ladies with the piña coladas would now like another. “I’m afraid there is nothing else.”

There must be something in Leticia’s tone of voice that causes the girl’s male companion to bristle and bark at her. “Have them make something else. How difficult is that for you people?”

Leticia can handle guests grabbing at her, sending back food, or complaining for no reason. She works well under pressure; she would not have survived as a mesera for so long without that skill. What angers her most about table three, however, is the fact that they don’t and probably never will care about anyone’s situation other than their own. They don’t give two shits that she is the only mesera on the floor, that she is one person to take care of the twenty-four people seated and waiting for food. She doesn’t expect anyone to leap out of their seats and help out, but she does hope that someone takes the time to notice that she is trying her best with the two arms and two legs she has.

“Hi,” a male voice says next to Leticia. It is the gringo from the large group.

“I’ll be right there,” Leticia breathes, trying her best to remain calm.

“Oh no, I don’t mean that.” The man walks with a cane, which she hadn’t noticed before. “My friends and I? We got all night. You take your time with us. See that scrawny fella over there? Luis’ wife used to wait tables, so we’re cool.”

“Who the fuck are you?” male companion from table three spits out. He bangs his fist on the table. “We want our food!”

The look that the gringo gives is openly vicious. Nothing is held back or masked. Broad shoulders lean forward, and the gringo places his right hand on the table. The tone of voice he spoke to Leticia in evaporates. It becomes something like a growl, clear and perfectly audible above the noise of the restaurant. “Shut your hole.”

A moment later, the gringo stands up straight and breaks his eye contact with table three.

“I can help you with that tray,” he offers, tucking his cane under his arm. “If you wanna go swap out their food and grab other stuff.”

All other tables have stopped trying to wave Leticia down. All eyes are on her and the gringo. Orders are up. Carlos and Jose step out from the kitchen when they realize she hasn’t swung by. Jose advances, about to ask her if everything is alright. But he’s got it wrong—the gringo isn’t her problem.

“Don’t bother!” the girl with the glasses hisses and gets up from the table, knocking over her glass of water. “We aren’t staying!”

Following her cue, her companion stands and steps too close to Leticia for her comfort. “We’re not paying either.”

Leticia gasps at the sight of a cane near her face. The gringo thrusts it in between her and the companion, careful with her space, pushing it away until the tip of the cane presses into the companion’s cheek. No one interrupts the gringo. All it takes is a tap of the cane for the companion to stumble backwards. The gringo advances, taking one, solid step forward.

“Don’t worry about it,” the gringo rumbles, his mouth twisting into a smile. “Here.” A twenty dollar bill is procured from the inside pocket of the gringo’s coat. Slowly but steadily, the cane is lowered and the bill is placed on the table. “It’s on me.”

Carlos joins Jose and they hover nearby. Leticia can’t move. Something in French tells her not to.

Face flushed, the companion shouts and charges. He takes a swing for the gringo.

The twist the gringo does with his cane is elegant and confident—practiced. Swing. Swoosh. _Smack!_ Once again, the tip is utilized, this time to flip a plate. It startles the companion, throws him off balance, and causes him to fall over himself. He trips and lands face down onto the table, the crash of it all is staggering. Without laying a hand on the companion, the gringo has made a complete mess of him.

A soft tap sounds, signifying that the cane is on the ground.

The gringo leans down to be eye level with the companion, who groans in pain.

“Ever notice,” the gringo murmurs, supple and sweet, “how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have messed with?” A desperate sob seeps out. The gringo smiles. “That’s me.”

A gust of cold wind from the door opening is the only the thing that takes the gringo’s—and everyone else’s—focus away. Leticia expects Teresa to stand in the doorway. It is not. It is someone the gringo next to her knows, another gringo, this one even taller. However, this one is not enthralled; his reaction is not one of shock or suspense.

“I’m calling the cops.” The girl pulls out her cell phone and swats her companion on the shoulder. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this! We’re pressing charges!”

 _Calmez-tou_.

This is not her mother’s voice. It isn’t anyone’s voice that she recognizes.

“I think everyone here needs to take a deep breath,” the newest arrival declares, holding his hands up and taking a step forward. “There we go. Everyone’s fine. We’re good, yeah?”

“The fuck you mean ‘we’re good’?!” the girl screeches. “He just beat my…”

“If he had, I would know,” the stranger interrupts. “And you would need an ambulance. So no. You will not press charges, you will not attempt to relive this experience, and you will not ever set foot in this restaurant again. There is nothing for you here.” He pulls the door open. “Leave, please.”

Before the girl can say another word, her companion stumbles outside without her. She shrieks and curses and rolls after him.

The tray Leticia is still holding is gently taken from her by Carlos, who sets it down on the messy table. But she can’t concentrate on anything except for what the two gringos say to each other.

“Sammy.”

“Don’t.”

“He deserved it.”

“You’re still speaking, why is that?”

“Sam…”

“Nope.”

“Baby?”

“Ha.”

“C’mon.”

“Are you alright?” the taller one is asking Leticia this. His eyes are filled with kindness and concern. “I’m sorry about all of this. Please, let us know how we can help.”

Nothing comes out of Leticia’s mouth. She has to crane her neck up to look at this gringo.

That’s the voice.

“Calmez-tou,” Leticia whispers.

Dark eyebrows raised, the gringo nods. “Calmez-tou.” He is about to say something else, but the front door opens and both Teresa and Miguel rush in. Damage control begins. The police do not show up. Leticia is taken to the back, given a cup of tea, and assured that she still has a job. She doesn’t know what happens on the floor or how Miguel takes care of all the other patrons in the restaurant. From the pieces she gathers from Carlos and Jose twenty minutes later, the patrons are given free meals and a round of margaritas. More than a few people tell Miguel how Leticia stood up against the demons at table three.

Hardly anyone mentions the gringos.

In fact, instead of sticking around to bask in the glory of saving the restaurant, when Leticia steps out to thank them, they are gone.

Their compañeros remain.

Teresa pulls Leticia aside one last time for the night. They have four more hours on shift together before switching out with the morning meseras. Leticia has class tomorrow. There is a quiz. If she is fortunate, her nephew will practice with her when he gets home from school.

“Miguel spoke to them,” Teresa shares, keeping her voice down. “A darles gracias.”

Leticia nods.

“You know who they are?”

Leticia shakes her head—no, she does not.

Picking up a clean apron, Teresa ties it around Leticia’s waist. She slips in a fresh order pad and pen. They have work to do.

“Those are Señora Martinez’s boys.”

Miguel calls out—order up, one plate of camarones.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i just have to say that that one line about "you meet someone..." is a clint eastwood line from Gran Torino. XD credit where credit is due. also, lol because we all know how much dean loves clint eastwood.
> 
> this was born spontaneously. i have no idea how this idea started but woah, 3k later and here you are. i hope you've enjoyed it!


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